The Pendulum had completed its dayward arc an hour ago, carrying Agony’s last light westward. Now Ecstasy’s pale reflection silvered the frost on the drive, turning the cobblestones to scattered diamonds. The transition hour had always struck Laila as the most honest part of the cycle.
Three carriages wound their way up the long approach to House de Vaillant, their lanterns bobbing against the darkening treeline. Laila watched from the entrance hall; her family arranged around her: a portrait nobody had commissioned but everyone felt obligated to pose for.
Maximilian stood at the front, Mirembe at his shoulder. Where he blazed, she held steady; treaty negotiators would have wept with envy.
Lambert had positioned himself beneath his father’s portrait. He had long since stopped noticing the contrast.
Isabella leaned against the east pillar, arms folded, braced for a fight. In a way, she was right.
Wylan stood beside Lambert, his collar still bubbling faintly despite Laila’s earlier ministrations.
Cedric appeared at Laila’s elbow. The two formed a united front against a gallery of statuesque company. Phaedra, watching from afar, most literally of all.
“The guests approach, madame. Professor Eldermoor’s carriage leads. The Legate’s follows. The Countess d’Aubigne brings up the rear.”
Laila watched the lanterns draw closer. One academic, one Church official, one representative of the Crown. An odd assembly for the former Duke of Pharelle, who had counted heroes among his companions. She recalled the state funeral and the array of dignitaries who had attended. Now only a handful of token officials, and one true friend.
Cedric had opinions. He was far too professional to voice them unprompted. “These gatherings do get smaller each year, madame. Perhaps it might be time to make this a family affair. The late Alexios, despite his public profile, was quite private, and Madame Seraphina—”
“Cedric.” Laila’s voice cut cleanly. “I will not have you bring up my late mother-in-law right now. You know she and I did not get on.”
Cedric inclined his head, the very picture of professional regret. Laila could feel the children’s attention sharpen. They had not been privy to much of their grandmother’s life, or the tensions that had shaped this household before they were old enough to notice.
“Who used to come?” Isabella’s question arrived before anyone had decided the subject was closed. “To the house. Before.”
Cedric glanced at Laila. She gave a small nod. Some truths were easier from servants than from mothers.
“Prelate Ramirez would have been here once. He started as House Chaplain, before his rise. Your grandfather chose him over Madame Seraphina’s objections.” A pause. “Even after Ramirez became the most powerful Prelate in Pharelle, he never relinquished the role. Many regarded it as a sign of true friendship.”
“The Prelate has been missing for years, Cedric.” Lambert’s voice had the quality of a door being tested for weak points. “Surely you remember the scandal.”
“Wait.” Isabella’s gaze sharpened. “Wasn’t Grandmother’s maiden name Vaziri?”
? The Church of Invictus officially maintained that ecclesiastical appointments were guided solely by divine inspiration. The fact that divine inspiration so frequently aligned with family connections was considered a testament to the faith’s excellent breeding stock rather than any institutional failing.
Laila felt the evening tilting toward territory she had no intention of visiting. “Yes. But I would rather not talk about the Vaziris tonight. It’s already morbid enough.”
“Yes, the disappearance of Prelate Ramirez,” Lambert continued, as though she hadn’t spoken, “and not one year later, the death of Grandmother Seraphina. Just as her older sister takes head of the Church.”
Laila rounded on him. “Enough of this. This is not a night for conspiracies a decade old. We are here to honour your father and the de Vaillant name, not the Vaziri name.”
Lambert inclined his head, but his eyes had the look Laila knew too well: the Inquisitor filing information away rather than abandoning it. Good. File it. This is not the place.
“But what was he like?” Wylan’s voice was quieter than his siblings’. “Not who came to memorials. What was he like when he wasn’t... the duke?”
Wylan had been so young when Alexios died. The others had memories; he had only absence.
“I remember a great deal, Master Wylan.” Cedric’s voice carried a gentleness he rarely permitted himself. “Madame d’Amboise, for one. Her friendship with the late Alexios was much remarked upon in society. A gentleman and a lady whose affinity never turned to courtship. Quite singular, by all accounts.”
“I recall.” Laila’s voice was neutral. She remembered the whispers, the assumptions she had learned to ignore. “She has not crossed our threshold since his death. Sends her regrets.”
“And I suppose, given Professor Eldermoor’s presence tonight, we might include Soraya in that number.” Cedric’s attention shifted back to Wylan. “The alchemist. Though she did not care for the estate. The duke would visit her often.”
Wylan looked up. “I remember when I first broke through. Father took me to see her a few times.” He straightened, squaring his shoulders in an attempt at their father’s bearing. “‘Now son, I know you’re not a traditional hero like your brothers, but I will not have you fail to uphold the family name. I am going to apprentice you with Soraya for a bit until you can be trusted not to burn the house down.’“
“Wylan.” Laila’s voice carried a warning. “This is not the way to honour your father’s memory.”
The impression fell away. Wylan looked younger without it.
“I remember her.” Wylan’s voice was quieter now. “She treated me like I had a mind worth talking to. I assumed she had taken a position elsewhere.”
“As did we all, Master Wylan.”
The pattern hung in the air. The Prelate: gone. The old friend: withdrawn. The alchemist: vanished. Laila watched her children absorb this, watched them reach the same conclusion she had reached years ago and never resolved.
Everyone who truly knew Alexios had disappeared, saving Professor Thaddeus.
We have strangers at the gates. One Church functionary, and the Crown’s representative.
“These are the guests we have,” Laila said. Her tone closed the discussion. “We will receive them with grace.”
Professor Thaddeus Eldermoor appeared in the doorway; high society had never quite taken. His coat was rumpled from travel, his beard neatly groomed, and he had come to grieve rather than to be seen grieving. He weighed each word like a rare gemstone, though most proved semi-precious at best.
“Madame de Vaillant.” He took her hands in both of his, and Laila felt the genuine warmth there. “I cannot tell you how much I have dreaded this evening. And how much I needed to be here.”
“Professor.” She allowed herself a small, real smile. Thaddeus had attended every memorial since Alexios’ death, the one constant among shifting guest lists and political calculations. “It is good to see you again, despite the circumstances.”
“And you, Madame. More than I can say.” Thaddeus released her hands and turned to greet the children. When he reached Wylan, he paused. “You’ve grown. Your father would be proud.”
Wylan’s expression flickered. He looked down at his hands for a moment, then back up, as though he had misplaced the appropriate response and wasn’t sure it was coming.
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Maximilian stepped forward to clasp the professor’s hand. “Professor Eldermoor. Welcome. We are grateful you could join us.”
“Your Grace.” Thaddeus inclined his head. “You have your father’s bearing, if you’ll permit an old academic his observations. Though given your bright red hair, I suspect you got your ‘fur colourings’ from your mother’s side.”
Laila raised an eyebrow but let the comment pass. Aurora’s dark curls carried telltale streaks of the same red.
“Often enough,” Maximilian agreed. The graciousness almost worked.
Wylan stepped forward, which meant he had thought of something. “Professor, whatever became of Soraya? You knew her, didn’t you?”
Thaddeus’s expression warmed at the memory. “We collaborated a few times, on some of your father’s projects. She was brilliant, if rather prickly about methodology.” He rubbed his hands together, glancing toward the interior of the house. “Though perhaps I might save the reminiscing until I’ve had a glass of port and the company of a fire. The journey has settled into my bones.”
“Of course, Professor. Cedric, if you would—”
Lambert had moved from beneath the portrait at some point during the professor’s welcome. He stood nearer the door now, but Laila tried not to let the room see her notice.
The doors swung open again, admitting a gust of cold air and Legate Benedict Calderon.
He filled the doorway crisply, efficiently, with the unshakeable conviction that waiting was a moral failing. His robes were immaculate, his bearing rigid. His gaze conducted a swift inventory of the assembled family and moved immediately to the item of interest.
“Madame de Vaillant.” He offered a bow calibrated to the exact degree propriety demanded, and not a fraction more. “Your Grace.” A second bow to Maximilian, marginally deeper. “The Church extends its condolences on this solemn occasion. The late duke’s service to Invictus will not be forgotten.”
“Legate Calderon.” Maximilian’s reply was formal, correct. “The Church honours us with your presence.”
If Calderon heard the careful neutrality in those words, he gave no sign. His attention had already left the duke, sweeping the entrance hall, lingering on doorways, measuring distances. When his gaze found Lambert, it stopped.
“Ah. The young Inquisitor.” He studied Lambert as one might examine an unfamiliar specimen. “We were all rather surprised when your family instated you as House Chaplain in time for your father’s funeral service. Though I suppose House de Vaillant does have a habit of making politically interesting choices on that front.”
Lambert’s expression remained composed, though Laila caught the slight tension in his shoulders. “Legate. I am honoured by your presence.”
“Honour.” Calderon repeated the word as though testing it for structural integrity. “Yes. We shall speak more of honour later, I think. The Church takes great interest in the rational guidance of the most eminent house of Pharelle.”
The threat landed softly, wrapped in propriety. It was also a direct slight to Maximilian; the decision had been hers, but the target was entirely his. Calderon had chosen it within thirty seconds of entering the room. He had not looked at her. He had not looked at the duke. He had found Lambert.
She watched her son’s fingers curl into the opening gesture of a brandish, the sign he was close to conjuring fire. She stepped smoothly to prevent a frosty reception becoming more incendiary.
“The Legate must be weary from his journey. Cedric, please see that refreshments are prepared in the parlour.” She placed a hand on Calderon’s arm, steering him toward the interior, gently implacable. “We have so much to discuss, Legate. But first, I believe our other guests approach.”
The third guest took her time.
This had been deliberate since the invitation. D’Aubigne would of course wait until last to outshine the other guests.
Laila recalled the Count’s RSVP vividly. Madame, it pains me that matters of the King and state will preoccupy me that evening. And as much as I have commiserated the passing of his Grace in these past six years, grief holds no space for politics, and time waits for no one.
The message had been polite but clear. The state wanted to move on from Alexios’s legacy and onto brighter things.
In my absence, please ensure that my wife, the Countess d’Aubigne, is greeted as you would greet me, as an envoy of the King himself.
Another coded message: tread lightly, for an insult to her person may itself be an insult to the King.
The doors remained closed for a long moment after her footsteps sounded in the portico. Then they swung wide, and Vivienne swept into the entrance hall like a declaration of war dressed in mourning.
The clack of her heels on the polished floor matched her expression: sharp and deliberate. Her gown was a cascade of black and purple, balanced between elegance and threat. She paused on the threshold, framed by the darkness behind her, and let the room turn to face her.
Vivienne smiled. She had counted the reactions and found them satisfactory.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied to Maximilian first, propriety observed, before turning to Laila with hands extended. “And Laila, darling. How long has it been? Too long. Far too long. And under such sombre circumstances.”
“Countess.” Laila accepted the embrace, feeling the calculation beneath the gesture. “How wonderful that you could represent the Count this evening. I trust he is well?”
“Occupied with the King’s business, as always. He sends his deepest regrets.” Vivienne’s eyes sparkled with counterfeit sympathy. “But I told him, ‘Darling, someone must pay respects to dear Alexios.’ And who better than one who remembers him so fondly?”
Who indeed. And what else are you here to find?
“Though I confess I’m surprised you found the time.” Laila kept her voice light. “The season must keep you terribly busy.”
“My attendants lighten the burden considerably.” Vivienne gestured behind her. “Elizabeth has been invaluable. And Ser Thornwood provides such comfort when travelling. The roads can be so unpredictable.”
Elizabeth stepped forward with measured grace and curtsied. But her gaze held a precision that lingered a fraction too long on doorways and sight lines.
Rather calculating for a servant.
The man behind her did not bow. He stood with a warrior's stance and was clothed like one: his domain was clearly battlefields, not ballrooms. His scars and his eyes told the same story; the one in old wounds, the other still cataloguing choke points and contingencies.
Vivienne travels with soldiers.
Ser Thornwood’s presence prompted Elariana to make herself known. With a subtle shift of stance, she stepped out of the background and into plain sight. Thornwood’s eyes tracked the movement immediately and met her gaze. Elizabeth was not far behind.
“Indeed.” Laila watched the exchange. “One can never be too careful.”
From an alcove illuminated with just the right light, Alexisoix strummed his lute. A single chord, bright and deliberate, turning heads as cleanly as a herald’s trumpet. He stepped forward in its wake, emerald pin catching the lamplight, cobalt cloak swirling behind him.
Vivienne turned, her sharp eyes narrowing with interest.
“Countess d’Aubigne,” he said, his voice rich and smooth, offering a sweeping bow and crossing the distance to her in a single theatrical flourish. “The stories of your beauty have not done you justice.”
Vivienne’s lips curled into a sly smile, her gaze flicking over him the way one might appraise a painting. Or a weapon. “And you must be Alexisoix. I had wondered if the man matched the reputation.”
“I do my best to exceed expectations.”
“Alexisoix.” Laila’s voice carried the particular warmth she reserved for corrections delivered in public. “The Countess has had a long journey. Perhaps save the serenading for after she’s had a chance to warm herself.” She turned to Vivienne. “You must forgive my nephew. The Beaumonts have always been better acquainted with charm than with timing.”
Vivienne’s smile sharpened with genuine amusement. Alexisoix, undeflated, swept another bow and retreated to his alcove, satisfied. He had achieved exactly what he intended.
? Court etiquette was, at its core, a system for ensuring that all wounds were self-inflicted. The duelling code existed for people who couldn’t manage this.
Across the hall, Laurent had stopped smiling. He was watching Thornwood instead of Vivienne as he set his glass down without looking. Laurent was drawing lines and swords.
“Well, you have met my nephew.” Laila gestured to the assembled family. “I should introduce my children. His Grace, the Duke, of course, and his wife Mirembe.”
Maximilian stepped forward and took Vivienne’s hand with the full force of his charm, which was considerable. “Countess. An honour to welcome you to our home.”
“The honour is mine, Your Grace.” Vivienne’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer than protocol required. “Your father’s image, brought to life. How fortunate for Gallia.”
“And my other sons,” Laila continued. “Lambert, and Wylan.”
Lambert inclined his head. Laila did not miss the way his jaw tightened at sons, plural, possessive, claimed. He let it pass. She filed this away as progress.
Wylan offered an enthusiastic wave that Laila chose to interpret as a bow.
“And my daughter, Isabella.”
Vivienne’s gaze settled on Isabella with renewed interest. “Daughter? How charming.” Her smile widened by precisely the degree required to make the next words sound like a compliment. “I know not many noble families would keep a child who had undergone latency transformation. I can imagine it was quite distressing to have a daughter transform into a siren. Puberty is already quite enough without such a demanding bodily change.”
Isabella said nothing. The courtesy was already gone from her eyes.
“How progressive of you. But I suppose that is, or was, Alexios.”
She couldn’t even do enough research to learn Isabella was adopted. Or you knew exactly and saved it as ammunition.
“She is not my daughter by blood,” Laila said, “but daughter all the same. Our family adopted her.”
Vivienne paused and recalculated. “Oh, of course. The Merovian Accords.” Her smile found a new angle. She had found the nerve she came for. “That must make you Ondine Marinelle.”
“My name is Isabella.” The courtesy never reached her eyes as she pressed every word.
“Of course, dear.” Vivienne turned back to Laila. Isabella had given her what she needed. “I never saw the point of children myself,” she said. “They’re much like good husbands. Best seen and not heard.” Her gaze drifted upward to Alexios’ portrait, gilded and commanding above the hall. “I suppose you have managed that part yourself.”
The silence that followed could have cut glass.
“I prefer the sounds of my halls filled with laughter and frivolity to the silence of cold, empty ones.”
“Well, some might say silence is the secret to a long and happy marriage.”
“How surprising,” Laila replied, “that you should uncover that particular secret, Countess.”
Mirembe stepped forward and placed a hand on Laila’s arm. The touch was light. The message was not.
“Countess, you must be chilled from the journey. Cedric will have mulled wine waiting in the parlour.” She smiled. “We are grateful the Count thought to send someone in his stead.”
Vivienne’s smile held, all charity and veneer.
And Mirembe noticed. Laila feigned her own smile. “Shall we?”